


Time is on Our Side

by der_tanzer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does everything too late. When he does it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is on Our Side

**Author's Note:**

> Rated R for serious language.  
> This story wanted to be wincest but just never got there, no matter how hard it tried. Also, I originally wrote it while watching season one, so any resemblance to later episodes (plot, title, usw) is purely my lame-ass luck.  
> 

Dean Winchester sat on the anonymous motel bed, lost in thought, buried in regrets. Sam was sick and Dean didn’t know how to help him. He’d never known how to help. It was probably all his fault, probably had something to do with the way he hadn’t paid attention, the way he’d avoided Sam ever since the night his kid brother had tried to kiss him. And it wasn’t easy to avoid someone when you were trapped in a car together all day. Sam had to have noticed. Like he noticed Dean’s hostile insistence on a double room, and his anger when they got stuck in a single with a king sized bed. When had that ever been a big deal before?

Too late, he asked himself how desperate Sam would have to be to make a move on him. How hurt and lonely he must be, after all the losses he had suffered. Maybe if Dean had thought about those things earlier—well, maybe it wouldn’t be too late now. But he didn’t, and he thought maybe it was.

A soft moan drew his attention back to Sam, lying behind him in the bed. Sam was stripped down to his shorts, but the unrelenting fever had him kicking off the thin sheet, searching for a cool spot without waking. He’d been heading down this road for a while, and only in retrospect did Dean realize that. Sam hadn’t complained, had tried to keep it together and not bother Dean while they were already on the outs, until he woke up yesterday morning barely able to walk. Dean hadn’t taken him seriously at first, but when Sam collapsed in the bathroom he had no choice. He’d carried Sam back to bed and began trying to figure out what had happened. Eventually, his thoughts led him back to Indiana. That was when Sam first started sleeping in the car all day.

There’d been a witch. A dark witch, the kind that maimed for fun and killed for personal glory, and Sam had put her down. Plain and simple, cut and dried, but a day later Sam was feverish and dull. He was tired all the time and his skin was pale in spite of his high temperature. Dean tried ridicule, booze, and ignoring him, but Sam just kept on sleeping. By the time he finally collapsed, he’d been sleeping twenty hours a day. And Dean had just kept driving across the country, intent on getting to a nest of werewolves in Arizona.

Once Dean put it together, he realized what was happening. Sam was just going to sleep. One day he wouldn’t wake up and the fever would burn him to death. It might take days or weeks, but Dean didn’t think so. He thought that once Sam was under deep enough to stop instinctively swallowing the Gatorade Dean poured down his throat, it would be a matter of hours.

Dean spent a day searching his dad’s journal and leaving desperate but pointless messages on John’s voicemail, before turning to the internet. Research wasn’t his strong suit and he was tortured by the knowledge that Sam could have done it much better. Dean really hated irony. So much so, that he was sitting here watching Sam sweat instead of frustrating himself by continuing to read.

“Hey, little brother,” he said quietly, laying a hand on Sam’s forehead. It was burning hot and he didn’t need a thermometer to know the fever was worse. “Sammy, can you hear me?”

The only answer was an irritable moan as Sam tried to escape his hand.

“No, Sammy, open your eyes,” he said, more firmly. “Look at me, Sammy. You know what I’ll do if you don’t.”

He didn’t, but such a thing was always a decent threat between them. Still, it got no reaction. Dean turned to the assortment of supplies on the nightstand and picked out a bottle of Tylenol. He shook out two, slid his hand under Sam’s neck and raised his head a little. Sam resisted the pills against his lips but Dean was persistent. He got them in, and fought back when Sam tried to spit them out. By the time Sam settled down enough for the water, the caplets had mostly dissolved.

“That’s gotta taste like shit,” Dean remarked, pressing a straw into his mouth. “Come on, dickhead, take a drink.”

Sam swallowed with an audible click, but didn’t pull any water up the straw.

“Figures, the one time I need you to suck.” He threw the straw away and nudged Sam’s chapped lips with the rim of the glass. A little water trickled into the dry desert that was his mouth, an equal amount running out either side. Dean was almost surprised that it didn’t sizzle away to steam on his skin. “Come on, take a little more.”

He kept pouring, but Sam had stopped swallowing and the water ran down his neck. Through it all, he never opened his eyes.

“All right, kid, you’re not leaving me any choice. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and all that good shit. But I swear to God, if you laugh at me, you’ll wish you’d died alone.”

Dean went into the bathroom where folded washcloths were stacked next to the sink. He stuffed one in his pocket and soaked another in cold water, whipping it through the air as he walked back to the bed. It was much colder by the time he got there, and when Dean touched it to his brother’s face, he heard a decided moan of pleasure. His heart took a funny leap and his breath caught for a second. Then he was shaking his head, stroking Sam’s face with the cloth and telling himself that the kid wasn’t even awake. He wiped away the sweat from Sam’s forehead and upper lip, behind his neck and across his vulnerable throat. By then the cloth was warm and he sat back to whip it through the air again. Then he folded it lengthwise, laid it over Sam’s forehead and took the other cloth from his pocket.

“You’re really pushing me, Sammy. I mean, I’d do anything for you, but you’re really pushing me.” He’d bought some rubbing alcohol yesterday, even as he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, and now he opened one of the bottles. Holding the cloth over Sam’s chest, he poured the alcohol liberally, figuring the spillage wouldn’t be wasted. A few drops fell on pale, clammy skin, and Sam flinched. Dean put the bottle aside and touched the cloth to the hollow of his throat.

“I know you feel that, Sammy. Come on, give me something. A blink, a twitch, flip me the bird, anything.” He stroked his brother’s chest slowly, deliberately, from shoulder to waist, then raised his arms to get to the hot spots on his ribs. Sam was trembling but sweat was already beginning to bead around his mouth again. Dean paused to wipe it away with the water soaked cloth, then went back to rubbing him with alcohol. Once he bent down and blew across Sam’s chest, making him shiver. Could have gotten one yesterday but he didn’t, and now it was too late for that, too.

“Sammy, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I need you to wake up. Just give me a sign that you’re in there. Something, Sam. Anything.” But Sam gave up nothing. His breathing was ragged and strained, as if the sleepiness was stealing the strength from his diaphragm.

Dean was out of options. He poured fresh alcohol over the cloth and lifted Sam upright, holding the limp body to his chest. He half expected some response, either from the change in position or the added irritation of his own body heat, but Sam was dead to the world. His cheek rested on Dean’s shoulder, hot and damp, reminding him of years ago when Sam was just a child. He began to rub the sweaty back, knowing this was where it would have the most effect.

“You don’t remember, Sammy, but you used to have terrible nightmares when you were a baby. You’d wake up screaming, all red faced and sweaty, and I’d hold you until you stopped crying. I was the only one who could do it. You wouldn’t calm down for Dad, even. So I’d walk you around the apartment, or motel room, or wherever we were, and you’d cry on my shoulder like a little bitch for a half hour or so and then go back to sleep. Those were the days, huh, Sammy?”

He stopped talking when Sam didn’t answer. He was desperately afraid now, wondering what Sam’s temperature really was, and how high it could go before it cooked his brain. The idea of Sam’s brain boiling like an egg in a microwave was scarier than any supernatural being he’d ever faced and he had nothing useful with which to fight it. All he had was alcohol and Tylenol, and neither were going to fix whatever that witch had done. Even if he thought Sam could survive the fifty mile drive to the nearest hospital, he doubted a doctor could help.

So he ran the cloth up Sam’s neck, under his shaggy hair, and blew lightly across the skin. Sam shivered again and Dean smiled. He kept it up until the shivering became constant, then laid Sam down and covered him with the sheet.

***

All that day, Dean stayed by his brother’s side, giving him water and Tylenol, keeping the cold cloth on his forehead and rubbing him down with alcohol every couple of hours. But Sam never responded to his words or his touch, and as dark approached, Dean knew that he would die. The last person he had would be gone by morning, leaving him just like everyone else. It was the ultimate validation of his lifestyle, but the victory would be meaningless without Sam to lord it over.

Long after dark, Dean lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He had no intention of really sleeping, but his body ached with nervous exhaustion. Heat baked off of Sam, and lying beside him, Dean had no need of blankets. It should have been cold. It certainly was outside, and even across the room. But here on the bed it was unbearably hot.

“I really screwed up this time,” he said, as much to himself as to Sam, who wouldn’t answer anyway. “I had a week to look for answers and I didn’t do anything. I knew three days ago you were in serious trouble, but I wanted to keep hunting, I put the job ahead of my brother, and now we’re both going to pay.”

He sat up with a sigh and leaned over the still body for the cloth and alcohol. Rubbing it gently over Sam’s chest, he went on speaking.

“I never tell you these things, Sammy, it’s just not my style. But you know I love you. I would have done everything different if I’d known it was going to turn out like this. I’d have left you at Stanford…”

But would he? Would he really rather have his brother alive somewhere, lost to him, and go on these missions alone? Yes, he decided he would. When Sam died, he would be alone anyway. Better they live apart and still be brothers. But he’d reached that decision too late, like everything else.

“I should have left you there. Dad and I, we cut you out to protect you. We kept an eye on you, but we were never going to drag you back in. You were going to do all the things I couldn’t. Get an education, be a lawyer, not have to die in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere. I wanted those things, but not at your expense. I’ve been an asshole about it, I know, but I wouldn’t have taken it from you. If just one of us could have gone to college, I’m glad it was you. I should have left you there.”

He raised Sam’s arm and stroked firmly from shoulder to hip, squeezing drops of alcohol out of the cloth and watching them trickle down the oddly prominent ribs and around his back. He wondered when his brother had gotten so thin. Was it this illness or had it started earlier, when they first hit the road? Dean hated himself for not knowing.

“Sammy, I can’t do this without you. I ripped you out of your own life, took you away from all your friends and everything, just to keep me company. It was totally selfish, I admit that, and I’d do it differently if I could, but I need you so bad. I can’t kill you and then just go on. It’s gotta be one or both, Sammy. You gotta get better or it’s all over.”

He soaked the cloth again and moved over to Sam’s other side.

“I’d do anything for you, baby brother. I would. If you opened your eyes and asked me for anything, I’d do it. I—I’d get an honest job. I’d send you back to school. Dude, I’d give you my car.” He studied the flushed, sweating face for a moment, brushing back the wet hair from Sam’s forehead, transfixed by his angelic features. “Sammy, if you came onto me now, I’d do it. If it would bring you back, if this was a fairy tale and I could kiss you awake, I _so_ would. I’d fuck you if that’s what it took.”

In the back of his mind he heard Sam saying that every legend started somewhere. But that was crazy. If anything got the kid through this it would be—but he couldn’t finish that sentence. He didn’t have any idea. But a kiss from his big brother wasn’t going to solve anything. At best it would be too little, too late.

Maybe if he hadn’t freaked out so bad in the beginning, Sam would have let on how sick he was. If only Dean hadn’t driven that wedge between them. Sure, it was Sam who started it, but Dean had called him a fag, and even pretending later that it was a joke hadn’t been enough to fix that. Dean didn’t even mean it. He was just surprised. He turned Sam onto his stomach and went on bathing him while he thought that over.

By the time he was finished, he knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep. Sam was marginally cooler and Dean had propped him upright against a mountain of pillows and clothes to ease his breathing. And since he couldn’t do anything else right now, he got out the laptop and started researching sleeping curses.

***

Dean woke at the table just as dawn was breaking. Sam was laying right where he’d left him, burning and pale, breathing too shallowly to even raise his chest. With no hope whatsoever in his heart, Dean went to the bed and tried to give him some Tylenol. It was pointless against witchcraft, but Sam wouldn’t swallow them anyway. Dean wet the cloth with alcohol and rubbed his chest some more, hoping for something besides that awful stillness. But Sam wouldn’t even toss his head now. He just laid there, eyes closed, sweat beading on his face. Dean touched his throat and felt his pulse, weak and fluttery, the heartbeat of a man on fire.

Witchcraft. Dean had used some of the secret search engines he found in Sam’s Favorites folder, highly specialized sites that were hard to find and charged monthly fees that Sam paid with a series of credit cards, and found some possible answers. Many of them involved spells he couldn’t work, or ingredients he would have a hard time finding, but there was some information he could work with. Like the Sleeping Beauty curse. All that was required to break it was the kiss of a loved one. Simple, but probably the best the witch could do after Dean had trashed her house and destroyed her tokens. It could be cast quickly and easily, and she’d probably had enough time to get it out before Sam stabbed her in the heart.

She probably even knew enough about them to have reason to think it would work. She’d known they were coming before they got there, and when they met her, she knew their names. If she knew of Sam’s deep loneliness, it would make sense to use it against him. Especially if she knew how Dean felt, and he suspected she did. It would make his death Dean’s fault all the way, not just for making him a hunter, but for denying him the love he needed right up to the end.

“What a bitch,” Dean muttered, his hand still on Sam’s throat.

But maybe he’d outsmarted her. Maybe he’d figured it out. And maybe she’d misjudged how far he’d go for the one person in the world _he_ really needed. Anyway, he had nothing to lose. If it didn’t work and Sam died, nothing else would matter. Dean wouldn’t live long enough to have to explain it to anyone.

“But if this works and you give me any shit whatsoever, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

With that, he bent down and kissed Sam softly on the mouth, tasting salt and coppery blood. It was the taste of death.

Nothing happened. Dean lay down beside him and wept.

***

“Dean?”

The voice was quiet but not hoarse with sleep as it had been the last time he’d heard it. Dean kept his eyes closed tight, certain he was dreaming. It sounded like Sammy, but Sam was dying. _He can’t talk. He can barely breathe. _Suddenly Dean was certain it was a hallucination. Or a ghost. _God, this is it. He’s dead. I’m going to open my eyes and he’ll be dead. _

“Dean, are you okay?”

He opened one eye, his body tense with fear, and saw Sam looking down on him.

“What’s going on? Where are we?”

“Lava Falls, Arizona,” he said numbly. “Sam, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just don’t remember how we got here. Have I been sick or something?”

“Yeah, you have. Since that witch in Indiana. She—I think she cursed you. You don’t remember?”

“Not really. Dean, are there any blankets? It’s freezing in here.”

The elder Winchester stared in disbelief at his brother shivering in the chill air. All the thoughts and promises of the last thirty-six hours flashed through his mind and were just as quickly dismissed.

“You’re such a whiny little bitch. No, you stay there, princess. I’ll get you some blankets.”

“Thanks, asshole. Hey, what are we doing in Arizona, anyway?”

“There’re werewolves in town. We were going to clear them out when we finished the witch, but you fucking punked out on me.” He got two blankets from the closet and spread them on the bed.

“Well, I’m okay now. Just a little tired, and fucking starving, by the way. But I don’t feel sick. What was wrong with me?”

“Some kind of sleeping curse,” Dean said vaguely. “I got some Cup-o-Soups if you’re hungry.”

“In a little bit. Right now I just want to get warm. Why didn’t you have the heat on?”

“You had a fever,” Dean shrugged. “I’ll turn it on now. Princess.”

“Bite me.”

“Get bent.” He turned up the thermostat and returned to the bed, stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers. “Move over, Sammy. I’m fucking beat.”

“Why, what have you been doing? And how did you break the curse? Those’re almost impossible.”

“You college boys; always with the questions. Shut up and go to sleep, Sammy. We got wolves to kill tonight.”

“_Sam_,” he sighed, turning his back to his brother. He was surprised when Dean’s arm slid around his waist, but at least he seemed to be forgiven. Anyway, Sam was too tired to worry about it now. Something had sure sucked the energy out of him, and Dean was right. They had work to do.


End file.
